Internal Ballistics
by Aardwolff
Summary: "Alex jolted as something slammed into his side and made him stumble back a step. It only took him a split second to realize what happened. Someone had just shot him." Set after Scorpia Rising. Written for the November SpyFest prompt: "Gunpowder, treason, and plot."
1. Chapter 1

This was written for the November SpyFest prompt, as it hit me hard with an idea. The prompt was: "Gunpowder, treason, and plot."

Disclaimer: Unless Anthony Horowitz is a college student with $2.93 in his bank account, then no, I do not own Alex Rider.

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Chapter One: Round in the Chamber, Target in the Sights—Pull the Trigger

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Joanne Talbot shrugged off her scarf as she stepped inside the warm, little Italian bistro. It smelled heavenly, and she breathed in, shaking her hair loose from her cap. She smiled at the hostess, but continued past the reception towards the back of the room. There, in one of the booths, sat the man she had come to meet. His face was cast in shadow due to the dim lighting, but she saw his leg tapping on the floor in an inconsistent rhythm. She did not approach him, though.

Joanne stepped up to the small bar cloistered into the corner and slid into a seat, ordering a glass of wine. She swirled it and gazed at the mirror across the bar and the man reflected in it. He seemed nervous, she perceived. But not to a point of recklessness. He was tapping his foot and fingering his jacket pockets, but he was not glancing around surreptitiously or rubbing at an ear.

Joanne spent a few more minutes sipping her drink before she twisted the head of her watch thrice counter-clockwise until it clicked, and stood to her feet. That would take care of any listening devices. She made her way over to the booth, the sound of her heavy boots mostly drowned out by the opera music playing in the background. She placed her glass down with a _clink_ , causing the man to jolt as he noticed her presence. His pale brows furrowed as she slid into the booth, heavy-lidded eyes watching her.

"Fancy seeing you here," Joanne spoke. "Tell me, how are the kids? Mary?"

Comprehension flickered across the man's face and he hunched forward. "Look, I don't want to draw this out. Let's just get this over with." He muttered.

Joanne's lips curled in a sharp smile. "Now, is that really any way to talk to an old friend, Randall?"

Randall slumped back, perhaps going for nonchalant, but gazed at her darkly. "I did my part of the bargain, now do yours. There's no more need for this cloak-and-dagger shite. You said nothing would get back to me. I'm holding you to that." He seemed as if he was trying to come across stern, but his throat bobbed.

Joanne let the smile drop, leaning forward and tilting the wineglass back and forth. She swept her gaze over the rest of the bistro before letting it fall on Randall once again. "As long as you took proper discretion, you have nothing to worry about. Now, I think I'm as eager as you for this association to end, so why don't you give what I came for and I'll take it off your hands?" Joanne placed her palm atop his clenched fist.

Randall's eye's flickered around the room before he reached into his pocket with his free hand and then brought it to rest atop the table. Joanne smiled as she nimbly maneuvered the flash drive out of his grasp and placed it in a small pocket sewn into the band of her glove.

She moved to retract her hand, but Randall darter forward, holding her wrist. He licked his lips, darted a glance at a passing waiter, "The boy—he won't come to harm? You never said."

Joanne jerked her hand out of his grasp. "I don't believe that is relevant to you. Thank you for your generous contribution, Randall, it will not go to waste." She gave him one last parting smile, cheeks dimpling, and stood from the booth. She pulled on her hat, wrapped herself in the thick scarf once again, and exited the bistro. Her stomach growled in hunger but she hardly felt it. She had what she needed.

Joanne walked down a side street in Greenwich, over-warm in her heavy clothes. It may be November but the sun was high in the sky and the weather unseasonably warm. The streets were lively, full of shoppers and vendors taking advantage of the day, and Joanne had to resist removing her scarf as it stuck to the sweat on her neck. It wasn't solely due to the heat, though. She was exhilarated. The last source of information she'd been waiting for was now in her possession. Finally, she was ready to move into the enactment stage. Everything was planned out, meticulously hashed and rehashed. She couldn't account for all the variables, but she could roll with any roadblocks thrown her way. She was prepared.

Joanne pulled a cell phone out of her jacket pocket and hit speed dial, calling the only number programmed into the phone.

"Hello?" it was picked up on the first ring.

"Mr. Walters. The last of the data has been acquired. I'll contact you tomorrow and set up an appointment." Joanne spoke quickly before hanging up, knowing how Walters could be when left an opening.

She paced down the street, taking in the sights and sounds and smells.

Soon.

Soon, it would all change.

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On the other side of London, in Chelsea, a blond-haired boy sat in the kitchen of an apartment and sipped on a cup of earl gray as he gazed out at the sunny day.

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This chapter tops out at about 800 words and is the shortest of the lot by far. Not super exciting, I know, it's really just for exposition purposes, and all the rest will be Alex's POV. There will be 5 chapters in total and I currently have all five written, I just need to edit them. The whole story got away from me a bit, and is currently at 18k words, and each chapter is longer than the previous (The last chapter actually comprises about half of the words, oops). I plan to upload at least the next two chapters today as well, and maybe the fourth. The fifth will definitely be waiting till tomorrow though.

Thanks for reading, and any reviews are appreciated, especially constructive criticism, as I'm always looking to improve.


	2. Chapter 2

A couple things to note: This is set after Scorpia Rising, however in this story Blunt has not been forced to retire and Alex never joined the Pleasures in America.

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

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Chapter Two: Gunpowder Ignites

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It was only 12:20 pm and Alex was ready for the day to be over. He slouched in his chair, listening to the English teacher ramble on, something about Raskolnikov and his _Ubermensch_ theory he thought, but he'd stopped paying attention a long time ago. He drew some geometric designs in the margins of his notes absentmindedly, anything to stop his brain from slushing out his ears in boredom. Still one more class after this one. Ahead of him Marlene and Josh were talking in hushed tones and giggling. Alex was almost tempted to lean forward and ask what about. But that wouldn't go over well. Few of his peers interacted with him anymore. Not after the shooting. It had been hushed up for the most part, but some of the kids in the class had talked. No one was sure how, but it was a widely agreed upon fact that Alex Rider had been involved.

Alex had been rebuilding his social life prior to that event. In the four months between the fiasco in Kenya and the shooting he had nearly regained the same social status as before MI6 sent his life through the shredder. And then a sniper had taken a shot at him. And Tom had been hit. And that was all anyone saw of Alex for the last of term. 'Avoid Alex Rider' had become an unspoken rule in Brooklands. Only one person was willing to associate with him, actually—Tom. His old friend stuck by his side, which wasn't beneficial for Tom's own social life, but there was little Alex could do to discourage him. In fact, Alex couldn't help but be very grateful for Tom's loyalty. Being a social pariah wasn't all that fun. He wished his friend was with him in this class, but Tom was apparently "allergic to English" as he'd put it.

Alex was drawn out of his thoughts when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Casually, he placed it on the desk and maneuvered his textbook before it, hoping the book would conceal his phone from his teacher's gaze. Alex unlocked the phone and sighed when he didn't recognize the number. Might as well check it, though. Alex clicked on the message.

 _You will get a slip to check out within the hour. Do not take it. Leave school. Go somewhere you will be hidden. Contact no one._

Alex blinked. A pang shot through his hand and he realized that he'd clutched his pencil so hard it snapped. He took a deep breath but the tightness in his chest didn't abate. It had to be a joke. Maybe one of his classmates had gotten ahold of his number and thought it would be funny to play a prank. It wasn't. Alex took another breath and stuffed his phone in his pocket. He decided he would just ignore it, although his racing heart didn't seem to be getting the memo. He sat up straight and forcefully tried to focus on the lesson.

His phone buzzed once more.

His teacher's voice seemed to slur together into meaningless drabble and his concentration kept slipping back to the weight of the phone in his pocket. Alex's foot beat a steady rhythm onto the floor and he picked at the broken remains of his pencil, pealing the jagged wood away from the graphite core.

This was stupid. He shouldn't let himself get worked up over such a little thing. Alex grabbed his phone again and unlocked it, opening up the message app.

 _Do not go to the bank._

This wasn't a prank. He stared at the message, then went back and reread the previous one. He didn't understand. The first message implied it was from MI6, as they were the only ones who had sent cars for him before, and the second addressed "the bank", so the writer was obviously in the know. But they had directed him to stay away.

The most obvious answer seemed to be that it was a trick. Someone wanted to instill fear and isolate him. But that didn't make sense. If they were going to capture him or kill him there were much easier ways. He hadn't heard from MI6 once since he cut ties and as far as he knew they weren't having him tailed. If someone really wanted to target him they would have no opposition. It was something he'd contemplated a lot.

Which is where his confusion stemmed from. If this was from MI6 why would they warn him away from coming in? Unless . . .

The thought sent a cold bolt of fear through him. _Unless he'd become a liability_. Unless Blunt had finally decided Alex had outlived his usefulness. But why _now_? Alex had been living as a civilian for the past four months. He couldn't have done anything recently to warrant such an action.

Alex tasted blood in his mouth and realized he'd split his lip chewing on it. He glanced at his watch—the last gift left to him by Smithers—just twenty more minutes and the lesson would be over. When the bell rang, Alex would leave school and go somewhere he could lay low for a while. Figure out a plan from there. The minutes dragged by painfully, Alex tense and unable to relax. He wasn't even looking up anymore, but down at his phone reading and rereading the texts, mind whirling with possibilities. It wasn't until an exclamation broke through his musing that Alex levelled his gaze back up.

Marlene and Josh were huddled together at the desks in front of him, gazing down at one of their phones. They both turned around to glance at him, and Alex felt dread settle into his stomach.

Josh turned around fully, holding out his phone to Alex. "The fuck is this, Rider?"

A buzz filled Alex's brain. He felt sick. There on the screen, the online copy of today's _Daily Mail_ :

 _ENGLAND'S TEENAGE ASSASSIN! NEW INFO ON ATTEMPT ON FORMER PM'S LIFE!_

And below it, two pictures. One; the previous Prime Minister, slumped on the floor, holding his bleeding hand. The second; A blurry figure dangling from the roof of the building, gun in hand.

Alex could only stare at the pictures, couldn't make himself decipher the words.

"The fuck kinda joke is this?" Josh asked again, annoyed.

Alex opened his mouth, but couldn't say what he would have answered if the teacher hadn't called his name right then.

"Mr. Rider?" His teacher repeated, "You're checking out." He waved the piece of paper.

Alex didn't think about it. He grabbed his backpack and all but bolted up the aisle. He wasn't sure what his face looked like, but Mr. Taylor gave him a concerned look, "You go home and rest up, Alex." He called as Alex snatched the paper and fled into the hall.

His ears were ringing. The paper. _The Daily Mail_. The headline. The picture. It didn't make any sense. Alex wished he had read more of it. Was his name mentioned? The picture had been too blurry to make out his face, so unless there were more than it wasn't the photo that Josh had recognized. It probably mentioned his name, then.

 _Shit._

What else did it say? He needed to know right away. He needed—

"Alex."

Alex's head snapped up. His feet had carried him to the front desk on auto-pilot. And there, standing before it, was John Crawley.

He froze.

"Mr. Blunt would like to see you about your account. There's a car waiting."

Alex didn't move.

"Is it—how was it published?" Alex managed to croak out. _Why did you let this happen?!_ He wanted to yell.

Crawley's face tightened. "It would be best if this was talked about in privacy. And as quickly as possible." He took a step towards Alex, holding out his arm in a gesture to move Alex along.

And Alex remembered the text.

 _Do not go to the bank._

He took a step back.

Crawley stopped, his face softening. "I understand this is upsetting, Alex. Come with me, we'll figure this out."

Alex almost did. Crawley had treated him alright, other than the tranquilizer dart that one time. But that feeling in his chest wouldn't abate. That rabbit-hearted instinct that told him to get far, far away.

"Why don't you meet me at the car?" Alex said. "I left my books in class."

Crawley eyed him, "Alex. You know this is urgent. I'll send someone to pick them up, how's that? Now let's move along."

That sealed it for Alex.

Something about his reaction must have given him away, as Crawley tensed. "Alex—" He began, but was interrupted.

Mrs. Bedfordshire had been watching the whole interaction with increasing worry and she took this moment to stand up and move around the desk. "Now I don't know what's going on, but it seems an awful lot like you're pressuring this young man to come with you, Mr.—what did you say your name was?" She spoke, hands resting on her hips as she gave Crawley a harsh look.

Crawley turned to her briefly, "Ah, Ma'am—Shit."

Alex had taken the distraction for what it was and bolted back in the direction he came. He heard Crawley curse behind him and the sound of shoes slapping against the linoleum of the hallway and sped up, skidding around the corner. He had the home-field advantage here, he just needed to reach the exit doors by the back, then he'd be out in the open and free to lose himself somewhere public. That is, as long as Crawley had miscalculated and someone wasn't planted there already.

Alex bolted around the next corner and into the last corridor, the exit door straight ahead. Crawley sounded close behind though, and Alex feared he wasn't going to make it. Just then, the end of lesson bell sounded and doors burst open left and right, spilling students. Alex weaved and shoved, barreling his way forward. He heard an exclamation and glimpsed the dark hair of his friend Tom Harris before reaching the doors and flinging himself out of them.

He had a split second to register the fact that no one had been stationed by the door before he heard it crash open again and Crawley call after him. But Alex was already halfway across the parking lot. He was no longer a lithe fourteen-year old. He was nearly six feet tall now, legs longer, body stronger. Just because he hadn't been in MI6's employ the last four months didn't mean he'd grown lax.

Alex kept running and he didn't look back. He ran and ran, for at least a good five or six blocks, before dodging into an alleyway and hunkering down between two dumpsters. He panted, inhaling the stale stench of an inner-city alley. His hands shook and he wasn't sure if he was breathing quickly because of exertion, or if he was beginning to hyperventilate. He leaned forward, hands threading throw his hair and gripping it.

He was so, so, fucked.

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Should I put warnings up for swearing? I honestly don't know, but if that offends you than count this as one.

Thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

Things to keep in mind: I am an American, I have never been to England, and the majority of my knowledge comes from internet research, so I apologize for any glaring inaccuracies or misrepresentations of London and the English people.

Disclaimer: See chapter one

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Chapter Three: Gunpowder Burns; Bullet Begins Accelerating Down Barrel

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It had been three days. It hadn't gotten any better. In fact, it had become even worse.

The first thing Alex had done, after panicking for several minutes, was pull out his phone, eject the SIM card, break it in half, and throw his phone on the ground. He stepped on it a few times as well. It helped a bit. Then he picked himself up from the ground, hiked his backpack up his shoulders, and headed back out onto the street. He was flinching and glancing over his shoulder every minute, on edge, but he finally found a Tesco's and hurried inside, grabbing several pairs of shirts and trousers, a baseball cap, and two boxes of hair dye—paid for all with his meager supply of cash.

Maybe he was being overly cautious, but if MI6 tracked his trail to this store and were able to get a list of his purchases he didn't want them to know what color he'd dyed his hair, as that would render the whole thing a waste. This way they would still be left guessing. Although now he barely had any cash left, and he didn't dare use one of his cards.

Alex traveled South, crossing the Thames, and entering Wandsworth before he finally ditched the baseball cap and went through the process of dyeing his hair dark brown in a McDonald's bathroom. He'd never done it himself before and he ended up getting dye all over his clothes and even in his ears. By the time he was finished the sink had a dark stain to it that wouldn't wash away, but he figured it wouldn't be the weirdest thing the employees had encountered in the bathroom. That done, he switched clothes once more and exited through a window in the bathroom, just because. The rest of the day was spent walking all throughout South London.

By the time night started to fall Alex was sure he had lost any tails he might have had, as well as gotten lost himself. He figured he was either in Sutton or Croydon, but either way it wasn't the type of neighborhood he would normally choose to be in at night. But there wasn't much else to it. He couldn't go home (although he had never really thought of the apartment he shared with his newly appointed caretaker as _home-_ Home was a big, sun-lit house, and Jacks bright laughter) and he couldn't stay with any friends. He was well and truly out in the cold.

Alex had ended up staying the first night underneath a park bench, but he slept fitfully at best and as soon as the sun began to rise he gave up. He spent the next day wandering again and he finally mustered the will to read some newspapers as well.

The _Daily Mail_ had broken the story but just about every paper had printed something about it since. And they all painted the same picture: Alex Rider, dangerous, deadly, secret weapon of the enemy _—Assassin_. It had begun with a story about his supposed attempted assassination of the former PM at the science museum, and continued from there—When he supposedly blew up the chemistry block of his school, when he dropped Skoda's boat on a police conference, and finally, the attempted assassination on the US Secretary of State.

It was all wrong. The facts were skewed to show Alex in the worst possible light; as a vicious killer who was a traitor to his country. The story on the attempted shooting of the Secretary of State was the worst, not the story itself, but the picture. A frame from one of the news clips from the speech showed the politics club of Cairo College, huddled together in their seats, excitedly talking amongst themselves. And in the very middle, Gabriella, daughter of the Italian ambassador, leaned towards a boy with sandy blond hair and a wide grin on his face— "Alex" (Alex had snagged the paper from a stand and flipped it open in a small café. Upon seeing the picture—the bared-teeth smile of that boy—he had abandoned his seat, rushed into the toilets, and thrown up the sandwich he'd just ordered).

That had been a bad day. The next was worse.

London went on lock-down. News had gotten out that the last Alex had been spotted was in the city, being pursued out of his school by a "police officer". Traffic into and out of the city was being monitored and the police were on high alert. Alex knew he should have left immediately if he had wanted to have any chance of escaping, but he couldn't make himself do it. London was his home, the last familiar thing in his miserable life. He couldn't bring himself to leave. And where would he go? Would he really be better off anywhere else? It was safe to say Alex was in a bit of a rut.

He didn't see any way out of this. Perhaps he could try to go to the papers himself, but the media had been picking and choosing the information they revealed very specifically, they probably wouldn't believe him. He had no evidence to offer other than his word.

It did make him wonder exactly where they were getting this information. Who were their informants and where was all this coming from? It seemed as if someone was orchestrating the flow of information, only facts that painted Alex as a lone agent working against the government were used, nothing about his involvement in MI6. He didn't understand why someone would target him like this. Scorpia was gone. Most of his enemies were dead. MI6 would gain nothing from this. It was frustrating, to say the least. Alex's whole life had been reduced to shambles, and for what?

By the third day Alex was worn out. He'd gotten less than ten hours of sleep in the past three days and he'd begun to get a few sideways looks for his appearance. He'd managed to pick-pocket enough people to build up a decent wad of cash though, and so far no one had recognized him for who he has, which was something at least. He was lost though. Not physically, he'd figured out he was definitely in Croydon. But he simply didn't know what to do.

Alex found himself wishing for Jack's comforting words or Ian's plain logic, anything that would give him some sense of direction. No matter how much he wracked his brain he couldn't come up with a resolution to the situation and he knew his chances of being caught were increasing with the hour. There was only so long he could hide from MI6, in fact he was surprised he'd lasted this long. London was their backyard and he was essentially hiding in some bushes, hoping they would turn a blind eye.

Currently, Alex was slumped over a table in some Chinese restaurant, mindlessly chewing on a bowl of kung pao chicken. He felt inordinately tired. He wasn't sure how he was going to make himself get out of the chair. Maybe the wait staff would forget about him and he could just stretch out across the table.

He huffed. That wasn't likely to happen.

Slowly, Alex finished his meal and levered himself up. He swung his backpack over his shoulders and exited the restaurant. He tucked his hands into his pockets, shivering at the blast of cold air. It may have been an unconventionally warm November, but the nights were still cold. Alex had gained much respect for people who lived on the streets this time of year.

He trudged through Croydon, keeping his head down and projecting his best _fuck-off_ attitude. It seemed to work, as so far no one had bothered him. Last night he had found an abandoned building to sleep in (although going by the discarded trash lying about he thought it might be a part-time drug den) and he hoped it was still vacant tonight.

He slipped down a quiet street, deciding to approach from the back of the building just in case. He plodded along the pavement, breath fogging up in the night air. The street was dark, the sole lamp long ago burned out. In the distance Alex could hear the barking of dogs and honking of horns, but it was quiet here. The hair rose on the back of his neck.

Alex maintained his pace and just barely stopped himself from glancing over his shoulder. He kept his head down, but swiveled his eyes around, searching the shadows. As he approached the turn-off to his destination he continued walking, glancing out of the corner of his eye. There—in the alley a man leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He could just be a bloke taking a smoke break after a hard day at work. But Alex wasn't willing to risk it.

He walked past the turn and kept walking for two more blocks. He turned onto the next street with a lit lamp on it, and as he passed a parked car he glanced at the side-mirror.

Someone was behind him.

Alex continued to trod along. Should he run for it? What if the person had a radio and was coordinating with others? He could be being steered into an ambush.

He walked for another block, debating between running, or walking until the tail lost interest. Up ahead the street turned dark again and the pavement disappeared as houses were crunched close together. If there was a trap waiting for him it would be there. Most of the houses had the lights out, but Alex spotted one issuing light from gaps in the closed curtains and as he got closer he could hear the muffled sound of heavy bass echoing from speakers. If there was a party going on maybe he could sneak in and then go out the back.

He increased his pace and heard the sound of footsteps behind him increase as well. They were nearly on top of him. Now or never.

Swerving right, Alex hopped up the stairs and pounded on the door.

"Oi, open the bloody door! It's freezing out here, mate!"

Alex glanced sideways and watched as the man who had been tailing him continued past at a steady run, apparently pretending to be out for a jog. Alex nearly snorted.

The door suddenly swung inwards, issuing forth a blast of music. A bleary-eyed young man with bleached hair swayed and slumped against the door frame.

"Mikey?" He slurred, "What'choo doing outside? Come in!"

Alex pushed his way in and cringed at the level of sound. It felt like his brain was rattling in his skull. He'd never been to a party like this, and he couldn't say he was displeased. It was nice to know he really wasn't missing out on much. Alex pushed his way through the mass of bodies stinking of liquor and towards the back door. His hand was on the knob when he paused. Whoever that man tailing him had been—unless he truly was an innocent night-time jogger and Alex was too paranoid for his own good—he was probably still out there, and probably not alone. Alex _could_ go back outside and hope he wouldn't stumble upon anyone canvasing the neighborhood, _or. . ._

He was confident that he'd tricked his tail into believing him to be someone other than Alex Rider, therefore there would be no reason for the man to come back here.

Alex turned back around and made his way through the house opening door after door. After accidentally getting an eye-full of a drunk bloke pissing on the floor of the bathroom, he finally found a door leading down to a basement. He climbed down the rickety stairs and surveyed the room. It would do. He made a nest of dusty blankets in a corner—wedged between the washer and dryer and right below a small window. But despite the fact that this was the warmest place he had slept in the past three days he couldn't shake the ice in his veins. He could feel the net closing in on him, closer every day. He had no strategy, no way out. And soon he was going to be caught.

If not for his sleep deprivation, Alex doubted we would have been able to fall asleep. But so he did, hoping that perhaps tomorrow would call it quits and just not come in to work.

And so the third day ended.

The fourth day, however, was different.

* * *

You may notice some similarities between this fic and TomC's _The Truth Will Out,_ as they both deal with the idea of some of Alex's adventures being aired to the public. However, I have tried to take the idea in a different direction, and give it my own individual twist. If you like the idea though, I would highly recommend _The Truth Will Out_ , as it is very well written and actually goes into the concept of Alex being outed to the public in much more depth. This fic includes a similar idea, but I really don't touch on it as thoroughly, otherwise this fic would probably be at least twice as long (I'd originally planned for 10k words, it turned out to be 18k . . .).

Thanks for the read :)


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

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Chapter Four: Rifling on the Inside of the Barrel Gives the Bullet Spin

* * *

Alex woke gradually for once, feeling more comfortable than he had in a while. He was loathe to get up, but at the same time he knew it wasn't safe to overstay his welcome. Slowly, Alex dug himself out of the pile of blankets and rolled to his feet. He cracked his back, and stretched his legs, rubbing his eyes and glancing out the window. The faint light of dawn was creeping in.

Alex swung on his backpack and carefully climbed up the stairs, cracking the door open and peering out. He wrinkled his nose—it still smelt strongly of alcohol and the counter tops were all cluttered with beer cans. Softly, Alex crept through the house, maneuvering around a girl who'd decided the floor was a good place to rest, and a tipped-over keg. He sneaked out the back door and hopped the fence with ease. Deciding North-East was as good a direction to go as any other, Alex set off.

He left the residential district and found a road with some shops and restaurants along it. Seeing a newspaper stand, Alex reluctantly went over. He would much rather avoid reading one more word about himself, but he couldn't afford to be ignorant. Due to the early hour of the morning there weren't enough people about that Alex could get away with stealing a paper. Instead, he slapped some money down on the counter and reached down to grab the first one that caught his attention.

And boy did it catch his attention:

 _The Truth about Alex Rider: MI6's Exploitation of a Child_

Alex stared.

"Gave me a right shock as well," The man behind the counter chimed in.

Alex nodded, forcing his feet to move. He stared down at the picture and felt a lump in his throat. Taking up a large portion of the front page was a picture of him, smiling, sandwiched between Ian and Jack. Ian was smiling as well, albeit a small one, but it was genuine. Jack was grinning from ear to ear. He remembered that picture. It was taken on his thirteenth birthday. Just him, Jack, and Ian had gone for a hike in Epping Forest that day. It had been beautiful—a trail enclosed by large oaks with a gurgling creek racing alongside. They had stopped for lunch and Alex had climbed up into a tree to eat his sandwich. Then Jack had cajoled them all into taking a picture, threatening to pull Alex out of the tree by his legs if he didn't come down.

Alex swallowed uncomfortably and looked away from the picture. He walked a bit further before entering a small café and choosing a seat wedged in the very back. He waited for the waitress to bring him his order before finally pulling the paper out again, and began reading.

 _This past week the public has been bombarded with information about Alex Rider. We've learned he tried to assassinate the former PM as well as the U.S. secretary of State, and that he has committed multiple acts of violence against many individuals. Alex Rider, the fifteen-year old traitor. The cold-hearted assassin who has sparked outrage and fear in the hearts of the English._

 _We are here to tell you that is all false._

 _New information has come to light recently that exposes the grievous way in which Alex Rider has been maligned, and casts a whole new light on the information presented by multiple newspapers._

 _Alex Rider was never acting alone. He was employed by Military Intelligence six. He did not attempt to kill the PM or the U.S. Secretary of State. Nor did he attempt to kill the members of the police force present during the conference in which a boat fell on top of the building, and neither did he blow up his school. We here at_ The Guardian _are here to correct this gross miscarriage of information and shed light on a boy who has been abused and exploited by our very own government._

Alex could hardly believe it as he continued to read. The paper went on to state that he had been recruited by MI6 after the death of his uncle, and that he was forced to comply. It had photographs of Alex, Blunt, and Jones talking to one another at his uncle's funeral. Alex's placement at Sayle's facilities as Felix Lester was discussed, and there was even a quote from the real Felix Lester. They did not go into specifics about what exactly his mission involving Herod Sayle entailed, but they did state that Sayle had been involved in a terrorist plot, and by shooting the button controlling the release of Sayle's computer system he had prevented an untold number of deaths.

The article further went on to describe how Alex had been stationed in Cairo due to MI6's orders with the goal of preventing an attempt on the Secretary of State's life—which he did. Each accusation against Alex was refuted—he had been apprehending a notorious drug dealer, not targeting the police station. He had been fighting a suspected enemy, not blowing up his school just for the sake of destruction.

There wasn't a lot of detailed information about the events discussed, but there were enough concise, accurate, and well backed up facts to paint the picture. And while the paper did not go on to discuss any of his other missions, they ended the article with the statement:

 _All the information we have been able to compile on Alex Rider is now in the open, and the truth is out there, but we can only imagine, is that all of it? What else has Alex had to endure at the hands of our government? He is not the vicious killer we all thought, but an abused child who was taken advantage of by the very government he put his trust in. Alex Rider does not need to be brought to justice. Justice needs to be had for Alex Rider._

"Can I get you something, dear?"

Alex startled, coming very close to knocking over his glass of water. "Um, I-yes. The special." He blurted out.

The waitress gave him a bit of an odd look, but headed back to the kitchen after asking Alex how he liked his eggs. Alex himself sat very still, the words on the paper before him blurring as he gazed blankly down. He didn't know how he felt. In fact, he couldn't say he really felt anything at all other than shock. He knew he shouldn't be surprised—the truth was bound to come out eventually what with everyone digging into his past—but he was. Should he be happy he was no longer accused of being an assassin? That everyone knew how unjustly MI6 had treated him?

When he read that first paper the day after running from his school, Alex knew things were going to change. He had hoped that perhaps the article would be dismissed, that people wouldn't actually believe it. But then more stories were published—more and more each day. It wasn't until now he truly realized the finality of it, though. His life was in smithereens; there was no coming back from this. He would never be able to live the way he had before. It was ridiculous, he should be happy that he wasn't being touted as a traitor to his country any more, but instead he just felt hollow.

Alex ate his meal in a daze and left the café without even registering how much he'd paid. He had known this whole debacle was a turning point, one of those things that you couldn't come back from, that changes you for the rest of your life whether profoundly or even in just a small manner. But this was definitely turning out to be more of the former.

So far Alex had not had access to the internet and had avoided watching the televisions in restaurants, relying on newspapers solely for his information. But Alex figured if there was any time to see his face plastered across the television screen it would be now. He had avoided them before because it was difficult enough to read the vitriol in the paper aimed towards him, he hadn't wanted to listen to people ridicule him as well. Now he figured he would just get to listen to them dissect his life—much better.

Alex hung out in the local library for most of the day. He had grown a lot of respect for libraries lately as well, they were quiet and peaceful and nobody bothered him. But today he was restless, he only made it until five o'clock before shouldering his backpack and heading back outside to find a place that would have a television but wouldn't be too loud. That ruled out most of the bars, as it was a Saturday night, and although Alex had gotten into a couple before despite his age, he didn't want to risk it. Instead he settled on a small brew pub and restaurant at the end of a side street with peeling paint and greasy tables of questionable cleanliness.

Alex settled down in a chair adjacent to the TV in the corner, close enough to hear the broadcast but not backed into the corner himself. At the moment they were going over the latest Manchester United game so Alex ordered some fish and chips and settled himself in to wait, trying to calm the anxiety in his gut.

The screen cut back to the anchors, two young women, one with a slight scouse accent, the other almost posh. The Scouser smiled brightly at the camera: "And now we return to the story that I'm sure many of you have been waiting for. Alex Rider—from infamy to victimization; who is he? As we discussed earlier on the broadcast our stance still stands; Alex Rider is the victim here. More and more evidence has been presented that says the same thing, and that has shown how much those first few articles relied on baseless facts and hearsay that caused this cascade of misinformation. Well we for one would like to help correct those mistakes and show who Alex Rider truly is. Here is an interview we conducted with one of Rider's close friends just this morning."

Alex tensed as the TV cut to show none other than Tom Harris. His friend looked haggard—dark circles under his eyes and hair a mess. Alex felt guilty despite the fact that he knew contacting his friend had never been an option.

"Look," Began Tom wearily, "I'm not going to talk about anything Alex may or may not have told me. I don't care about any of that, I just care about my friend's safety. Yeah, I'm glad he's no longer being painted as this rabid assassin but digging into his past isn't the priority right now, you know? I think people are missing the point—yes MI6 used Alex and that is majorly messed up and they need to be held accountable for it, but I want to know what is being done to find and protect Alex right now. I have no bloody clue where he is, and he's my best friend! For all we know the government could already have their hands on him right now! People need to be focusing on helping Alex okay, because I'm really worried about him." Tom's voice cracked at the last second and he turned away to run his hands through his hair.

Alex felt a lump in his throat. He hated causing his friend to feel such distress, even if logically he knew there wasn't much he could do about it.

The broadcast returned to the two anchors and the posh one spoke up, "That was Thomas Harris, one of Alex Rider's best friends, and he brings up a very valid point. The last anyone ever saw Rider was Tuesday afternoon, when the receptionist at his school reported seeing someone chase Rider out of the building. Since then no sightings have been reported. It is important to remember that despite what we know of Alex Rider's impressive accomplishments, he is still only fifteen years old and has been missing for four days. What we need to focus on right now is finding this missing young man and holding the government accountable for what they have subjected him to."

Alex didn't really feel comfortable being painted as this helpless victim, but at the same time he was happy the attention had been turned onto MI6. Let them deal with this shit show. He felt the stirrings of some hope for the first time in a couple days. If he could find a way of turning himself in that was public enough, perhaps MI6 would give up? Perhaps Blunt would finally realize it was a lost cause, as Alex being killed right now would be extremely suspicious and not do anything for their image. His mind whirled as he started going over methods that would be just the right balance of public and private, just the right balance to hopefully keep MI6 from getting their hands on him.

He focused back on the TV as the newscasters began to show some clips of large masses of people standing outside the Palace of Westminster bearing signs. Alex was shocked to see his name, as well as picture, on some of the signs. The anchors relayed the protest to be one of many being organized throughout England regarding the government's abuse of power of one of its own citizens, and a minor no less. Alex hadn't realized the degree to which this news would displease people, but displeased people were. As one of the reporters said it, there was apparently an "uproar of anti-establishment sentiment sweeping the nation." There were even rumors about calling for the impeachment of the Prime Minister for allowing such a thing to occur under his watch.

Alex was floored. MI6 had blackmailed him into working for them and due to that he had experienced things that had changed him drastically and would affect him for the rest of his life. If they had never used him, Jack would still be alive. But at the same time, he didn't feel like he was without blame. He technically could have refused to work for them, regardless of the consequences. He could have ignored Yassen Gregorovich's dying words. He could have stayed in his lane and refused to listen to his incessant curiosity. But he hadn't. And yet these people were rallying for him, were crying out for justice. It felt undeserved to some extent, but at the same time Alex was warmed by it. He hadn't realized how much having other people support him could be such a comfort. It was shocking, in a good way.

Alex was drawn out of his musings as the broadcast finally cut to another commercial break. He glanced down at his untouched food and realized he'd forgotten all about it. Glancing out the window, he saw night was beginning to fall as well. This could be the last night he had to sleep out in the cold, Alex realized with pleasure. Tomorrow, he would find some way to turn himself in. Some way to stop running from MI6. With that fortifying thought in mind, Alex chowed down on his fish and chips.

He finished quickly and glanced up at the television one more time as the news resumed. They were talking about him again, big surprise, and Alex felt uncomfortable at the giant picture of his face plastered across the screen. There was no way he would get used to that, he thought, as he stood up from his table and headed for the door. He paused to drop some cash on the table first, and as he glanced up he made eye contact with a young man at the bar. The bloke was probably in university judging by his apparel and age, out with a group of friends at a pub for the night. Alex would have walked right past him without a second glance if they hadn't both looked up at the same time.

The man's gaze flicked from Alex to the screen behind his back—the one with his face currently displayed on it—and his eyes widened. Alex cursed himself and immediately looked away, continuing on his way out the bar. No one had recognized him the past four days and he had taken that for granted. It seems his luck had just run out.

Alex hunched a bit and kept his head down as he passed the man on the stool, hoping the guy would just dismiss it. After all, his hair was a different color. Alex made it to the door before his hopes were crushed.

"Oi—you! Hey, you!" The man cried out, his voice slightly slurred. "Mate, I swear that's the kid—that's the Rider bloke—" His voice was cut off as Alex hurried out into the street. He had only taken a few hurried steps before the door opened again and he heard a cacophony of voices echo out behind him.

"Oi!" Another voice yelled this time, "Alex Rider! It's you, isn't it?"

Realizing he couldn't avoid this, Alex turned around with a bemused smile on his face, "Sorry?"

The young man and his three friends had filed out of the brew pub and were walking towards him now, varying degrees of excitement written across their faces.

"Shit, It's really him, isn't it!" The man turned towards his friends, "See, I told you! So is it really true, mate? Are you really, like, a spy?"

Alex forced out a laugh, "Me? I think you've had too much to drink, mate." He started walking again, hoping they would leave it be.

"Hey! I know it's you! Come back 'ere!"

Alex sighed, turning to face them again. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say—"

 _Pop!_ Alex jolted as something slammed into his side and made him stumble back a step. It only took him a split second to realize what happened. Someone had just shot him, as confirmed by the pain radiating out from the point of impact. Alex dodged to the side again, and not a moment too soon as another report sounded in the chill night air. He crouched in the alcove of the closest shop, a hand pressed to his side. Back on the pavement the group of young men scattered amid a flurry of curses.

Adrenaline flooding his veins, Alex peaked around the corner. Coming down the street at a run now were two men dressed in dark clothes. One raised his arm and fired, and Alex swore as he ducked back into cover. He watched, bewildered, as the bullet seemed to ricochet off the store front and bounce into the street.

 _What?_ Alex lifted his hand from his side and looked down. No blood.

 _Rubber bullets_ , he realized, relief flooding him. Well, that meant he didn't have to worry about bleeding out just this moment.

Knowing he only had seconds left before the men were within range again, Alex grabbed the doorstop by his feet and slammed it through the window of the shop's door. An alarm started blaring as he reached inside and unlocked the door, swinging it open and tumbling through at the same time he heard two more shots. They punched through the already broken window and missed Alex by a hair's-breadth as he vaulted over the counter (seemed like the place was a bakery, he noticed absently) and sprinted for the back door. He could only hope there was no one waiting there.

Alex shoved open the door and bolted out, canvasing the area as he ran. No one was waiting outside the shop, but there further down was a dark van. The engine revved as Alex dashed across the street and his last view before he entered the alley he was aiming for was of the van peeling out as it reversed to face him.

Alex flung his backpack into a dumpster as he passed—it would only slow him down now—and continued down the alley at a run, thinking furiously. So, there were two teams after him as far as he was aware—those two men on foot and however many in the car. The men on foot weren't an immediate issue anymore as long as he kept a fast pace, but those in the car posed a problem. If they predicted where we was going they could cut him off, or if they were in contact with another team he could be corralled into a trap.

Alex hadn't wasted his time in the library the past few days—he had found maps of London and studied them meticulously as being familiar with the terrain could mean the difference between escape and capture. He oriented himself as best as he could while dodging down the next alley and thought he had a relatively good grasp of where he currently was. He had moved Northeast during the day and should be in Lewisham now, currently closing in on Greenwich. And suddenly that gave him an idea.

What if he crossed over the Thames?

His pursuers wouldn't expect that. The closest bridge to him was the Greenwich foot tunnel and that was an obvious choke point that he would be stupid to attempt to cross. Really any bridge would be an inopportune place to be as they were too easily monitored—he'd get caught the second he tried to cross one. So maybe he shouldn't use a bridge?

With that thought in mind Alex glanced down at his dual watch and compass—a leftover from Smithers, it was waterproof too—and turned north. His shoes splashed in puddles from the previous night's rain and he exited the alley out onto the pavement along a main road. It may have been night but it was a Saturday, thus there were still quite a few people out and about, but he couldn't count on safety in numbers, not when his pursuers had already fired on him while in public. He got a few curious looks as he sprinted down the road but most people seemed willing to leave well enough alone.

Alex heard the squeal of tires behind him and immediately swerved onto the next street. He leaped a fence and threw himself to the ground, damp soaking through his clothes and the earthy smell of soil invading his nostrils. He waited, heart thrumming, as the sound of an accelerating vehicle grew closer, closer, and continued past him. He only waited for a moment, as he knew his ruse would be quickly figured out, and slunk back over the fence and onto the main road. He threw off his warm jacket and beanie and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a weary teenager trudging down the pavement.

Alex felt cold and uncomfortably exposed but running would just attract more attention, so he continued in this fashion for one more block before heading down another street. It wasn't the most direct route to the Thames but It would have to do. He passed homes and businesses and groups of people spending a night out on the town feeling like an alien. London had been his home for the better part of his life, and yet he felt completely unconnected from it right now. Here he was, walking down a street at night after having been chased and shot just minutes before, as people walked right by him without a care in the world. It was disconcerting to say the least. And now that his adrenaline rush was beginning to ware off Alex felt jittery and cold and the ache in his side made it hard to take a deep breath.

He was hyper-aware of his surroundings as well, sure that any minute now someone was going to recognize him. He flinched as a stranger passed too close and just barely stopped himself from glancing over his shoulder every few seconds by constantly checking any reflective surfaces before him for figures tailing him. Alex made it two blocks, three blocks, four, before the anxiety let up, but even then he didn't relax—he couldn't.

He had to be nearly to the river, now he just needed to decide on the best place to cross. Sure enough, Alex walked one more block before the Thames came into view behind a row of large warehouses. Perfect—there should be few to no people here. He paused at the corner of the street, glancing at the wide patch of concrete between him, the large warehouse, and the deserted docks. Steeling himself—Alex darted across, feet skimming over pavement and eyes flickering around the dark buildings. No one in view.

He reached the edge of the warehouse and jogged forward. The river was in reach now, but Alex felt hesitation creep into his gait. It looked dark and choppy and awfully cold. He approached slowly now, edging along the side of the warehouse as he contemplated the foreboding water. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it looked?

Alex reached the edge of the building and stepped out towards the dock, only noticing the figure pressed against the side of the warehouse in his peripheral vision when they finally moved. Alex jumped in surprise and reeled sideways, but he was too late. A click sounded in the air and suddenly his whole body seized up. He lost all ability to control his movements and fell face-first to the ground, only the fact that his head had been turned prevented him from breaking his nose. He felt like he couldn't draw a breath, like someone was constricting his whole torso while simultaneously laying into him with a bat. He wasn't sure how long it lasted, until all at once the feeling retreated, leaving Alex gasping on the ground, suddenly aware of the gravel digging into his cheek.

He tried to move his arms, push himself to his knees, but his body was sluggish to respond and Alex became aware of the crunch of gravel as someone approached him. He struggled to get his arms under him but a weight pushed into the small of his back and suddenly hands were encircling his wrists and pulling them behind his back.

"Stop", Alex finally managed, gritting his teeth as his body jerked feebly.

The person didn't answer, snapping cold metal restraints around his wrists and then his ankles. Alex felt the weight leave his back and attempted to kick out, but they grabbed his feet and began dragging him.

"Hey!" Alex protested, voice hoarse.

Apparently his assailant didn't have the common decency to flip him onto his back before dragging him over the rough ground. What was the world coming to these days? Alex thought to himself, some hysteria creeping in. He was pulled along the cement, shirt rucking up underneath him and gravel scraping his skin, and then onto a wooden surface—the docks. Alex struggled anew, but he was too thoroughly bound and too weak from the taser.

His captor pulled Alex another couple meters before letting go of his feet, Alex immediately twisted over and kicked out again, but the person dodged. Alex glared up at them, and was slightly surprised to see the face of a woman staring back at him. She had to be late twenties or early thirties, relatively attractive but not very memorable, with dark brown hair in a braid and dressed in a track suit—like a working class woman going for a run during one of her few off hours.

"Who sent you?" Alex questioned. The obvious answer was Blunt, but something seemed different about her. She seemed to be alone, as far as Alex could tell, and he didn't think she had radioed anyone in after tasering him.

The woman blinked at him before answering in a soft voice, "No one."

She grabbed his legs again and sat atop them, not being deterred by Alex's thrashing. She reached towards the ground, grabbed a length of rope, and began to wind it around his legs. Alex could admire her thoroughness if he wasn't the one currently being trussed up.

"What are you doing?" He demanded, feeling off-balance. He had no idea what this woman wanted or what was coming next.

She stood up once more and sighed, apparently pleased with her handiwork. She gazed at Alex contemplatively for a moment before answering, "I'm not going to tell you my whole convoluted plot, simply for fact that we don't have enough time. This has been in the making for six months, and if I wasn't who I am there is no possibility in which it could have been achieved. But since you are a crucial piece, I will be concise."

Alex stared up at her as a horrible revelation washed over him. She was one of them. She was just like Cray, McCain, Sarov. Alex listened as she continued, with the thought that someone must have tattooed a sign on his face stating 'Megalomaniacs with delusions of grandeur, this is the boy you should target.'

"I am behind the recent break of news relating to you," The woman spoke, "I gathered and compiled all of the information and decided what to release, whom to release it to, and when."

Yeah, the universe hated Alex.

"Our government is antiquated and corrupt and in dire need of a change. In the simplest way I can put it, you are my catalyst." She said. "The first batch of papers were designed to spread fear and anger in the general populace, and the second was the arrow pointing that aggression towards the government. I'm sure you've seen the news. People are outraged on your behalf, and they will only become even more so. Your sacrifice will be what turns this nation back onto the right path, to progress and social reform, not the regression that our current political climate would foster."

Alex was still stuck on the word 'sacrifice' as the woman spoke, her words flowing quickly and full of passion.

"I apologize for what this government has subjected you to, and I apologize for my own hand in your death, but it is unfortunately necessary."

Alex could only stare at her in horror as she reached down and hefted up a large cinder block, grunting with the effort. Connected to the block was a rope—the rope currently tied to his legs.

"Your body will remain on the river bottom for about a week—the rope is made of a synthesized fiber that will dissolve after six to eight days—and when your corpse washes up on shore the situation will be ripe. The public will have been frothing at the bit for news of your whereabouts, and when they hear of your murder—drowned in the very river that flows through the heart of the city—well, it should be more than enough to force the reform I've been pushing. The Prime Minister will have no option but to step down and even I can't fully predict the fallout MI6 will face." She gave a grim smile and stepped towards the railing.

"Wait," Alex croaked, fear clogging his throat. "There's other ways this can go, I can testify against MI6, I can expose every secret of theirs I know, just don't-"

The woman took another step towards the edge of the dock and bent over, setting the cinder block down once more. She turned to look at him, pity in the line of her mouth. "I am sorry, Alex. But your death is not a waste—remember that." And she kicked the block off the edge of the dock.

Alex's eyes widened and his body lurched sideways as the block pulled him under the railing and over the edge of the dock. He sucked in a last gulp of air before hitting the icy water and being dragged down into the depths.

* * *

I'm not going to say I'm sorry, because that would be a lie. I've always wanted to be on the other side of a cliffhanger—the inflicter, rather than receiver (whoa, that sounds rather sadistic). Not gonna lie though, it feels pretty good. Anyways, you can expect the next chapter to be up within 24 hours, so I think I'm being pretty kind.

Thanks for reading :)


	5. Chapter 5

Final chapter!

Disclaimer: See chapter one

* * *

Chapter Five: Gun Jolts Backwards due to the Conservation of Momentum and Energy (Or: Recoil can be a Bitch)

* * *

Alex was surrounded by frigid cold, darkness clouding his vision and pressing in on him. Suffocating, quiet, other than the thump of his heart in his ears, the slosh of blood in his veins. Or maybe that was the sound of the water encasing him, his very own, malleable tomb.

He felt the weight on his legs dragging him deeper and deeper. His ears popped, the pressure in his sinuses increased, and it seemed to be an age before he finally stopped sinking. Then Alex just floated there for a moment, his mind reeling.

Here he was, tethered to a cinder-block at the end of a rope, bobbing along at the bottom of the Thames. Sometimes one had to wonder what exactly it was that led one to end up at a certain moment in their life. Ah, yes, probably MI6 in his case. Alex had a few choice things he'd like to say to Blunt right about now.

Alex shook his head, the very real weight of the situation made evident by the increasing pressure in his chest. How long had he been down here for? It already felt like an age, time having lost meaning in the conventional sense-the breath in his lungs the only clock that mattered now.

He tried to reach the rope on his legs, to swim downwards, contort himself, but the cuffs on his hands thwarted each attempt. Bubbles of air were escaping his nose and he felt himself getting light-headed. Alex thought frantically of a means out of this, but his thoughts were messy, impossible to string together. He writhed, wishing the rope would give. No such luck.

His lungs were aching now and his chest felt close to bursting. He scrabbled frantically at his wrists-right hand catching on the watch attached to the other, and something sparked in the back of his mind. Smithers. Smithers had given him this watch when Alex was down in New Forest, after Cairo. He never saw the man, but woke one morning to find it on the bed-side table with a note explaining the basic functions. He could almost picture it in his mind now, the very first line: _Top left button, 3 times, very similar to that situation with the jellyfish._

Alex twisted his wrist awkwardly and pressed down on what he hoped was the right button. Once, twice, thrice.

Nothing happened. Alex pressed the next button and the next, frantic. He flailed and jerked at the cuffs, air escaping in swaths of bubbles, and suddenly his hand was free. He immediately hunched over and grabbed his feet, reaching into his left shoe and pulling out the switch-blade he'd stuffed in the side. He hacked at the rope tethering him to the heavy block, no more air left in his lungs to release, sawing with the small blade. Alex kept cutting at it, a buzzing in his ears, until he felt the tension in the rope snap.

He kicked upwards, not having the air to hum and frankly too concerned with actually reaching the surface to care. He wasn't sure when his hands broke through the surface, too numb they were to register the difference, but he felt the breeze prickle across his arms and inhaled a lungful of air. At least, he'd thought it was air. His head reached the surface, hacking on a mouthful of water, and he struggled to kick his legs and stay afloat, bound as they still were in cuffs.

Alex coughed and gasped, too glad to be free and too concerned with staying afloat to worry if the woman was still nearby. Not much he could do about that anyway. He attempted to swim to shore, but nearly went back under. His body was still sluggish and aching and the current had already pushed him down river. Alex gritted his teeth. How pathetic would it be to escape that nightmare only to drown now, too weak to swim to shore? He turned onto his back instead, letting himself float for a bit. Gradually, his breaths stopped rattling in his lungs as he floated down the river and gazed up at the London sky, dark and murky and far too full of air pollution to see any stars, feeling strangely at peace.

Wait, maybe that was the numbness. He could hear his teeth chattering together and his fingers felt stiff and clumsy, now that he thought about it.

He looked to the sides of the bank nearby, huffed a sigh, and began a back-paddle. Only using his arms, that is. Kicking didn't really work. And each rotation of his right arm sent a flare of pain down his side. Alex cursed rubber bullets, looked at the shore again, and cursed the Thames. He added in a few more relating to megalomaniacal sociopaths, MI6, and anyone else who happened to catch his fancy. He kept on for a bit, hoping the vitriol would propel him, but was nearly at the point of just saying 'fuck it' and drifting wherever the current pleased when a beam of light swept across his face, blinding him.

"Bloody 'ell!" A distant voice cried "What'cha doing out 'ere? Going for a swim?"

Alex squinted in the direction of the voice-which unhelpfully was still pointing the light right in his face-and spotted a small dinghy bobbing towards him. He raised a hand in greeting only to realize it was the one with the handcuff still attached, and quickly dropped it. "You wouldn't mind giving me a lift, would you?" He called. "It's getting a bit nippy out here."

"Bloody 'ell!" The man repeated. "Just give me a minute you barmy git!"

"I'll wait!" Alex replied.

Soon enough, a life raft was thrown overboard and Alex clung onto it as it was reeled towards the boat. A weathered hand reached down and grasped Alex's arm-the left one, thankfully handcuff free-and heaved him upwards. Alex tried to scramble up, but it was a bit difficult with his ankles still constrained, and ended up face first on the floor of the dinghy.

"Blimey, what are you doing you crazy fool!"

Alex twisted around and leaned against the side of the boat, letting out a sigh of relief at the feeling of something solid beneath him.

"Oi," The man spoke, "What did you do? Escape from the prison convoy by leaping out of the vehicle and off a bridge?"

Alex stared at the man before him-old and weathered, a stereotypical fisherman from boots to bucket hat-rather bemused.

"No, but that was an oddly specific guess." Alex said.

"I've seen some shite, lad." The man grunted.

"Right." Alex huffed a laugh, feeling rather hysteric about the whole situation. "I'm actually a magician. My specialty is escape artistry, and well, suffice to say, I bollocksed this last one a bit."

The man stared at him. ". . . Right."

"What can I say? Harry Houdini's my idol. Mum wanted me to pursue an honest trade as a thatcher, like dear old dad, but alas, you can't deny the heart what it wants, eh?"

Alex thought perhaps that had been a bit too much, as the man narrowed his eyes at him. He gazed at Alex critically before nodding. "Haven't said truer words myself, lad."

Alex blinked. "Um, you don't happen to have a towel, do you? And maybe a paper clip?" he asked, becoming aware of just how violently he was shivering.

The man nodded, "O' course, you look like you're 'bout a jump outta your skin." He unbuckled a dry-bag by his feet and pulled out a large grey towel, tossing it at Alex. "The name's Deacon, by the way."

Alex thanked him, immediately wrapping himself up in the towel. His clothes were still soaked through, so it wouldn't do much good, but it was a temporary relief. He watched as Deacon rummaged through a box and pulled out a large fish hook, handing it out to Alex. "This'll do?"

Alex figured it was worth a try. He grasped the hook and starting poking it around in the locks on his ankles. Normally hand-cuffs were relatively easy things to unlock, as they were only single or double lock types, but Alex's frozen fingers didn't really want to cooperate and he couldn't stop shaking—whether from the cold or left over effects of the taser, he wasn't sure. He hadn't been tased before. Another one to check off the list.

Finally, the lock clicked and one of his ankles was free. The next one was quicker, as well as the one on his wrist, and when he was fully detached he bundled himself back up in the towel. Deacon gazed at him, eyebrows raised. "That's a handy skill."

"Trick of the trade," Alex shrugged.

Deacon snorted, "Might wanna re-think your vocational path, if I was you."

Alex shrugged again, but certainly couldn't disagree. "You think you could just drop me on the other side? My flat's not far from here."

Deacon nodded and started the motor to life, swiveling them to face a small pier on the opposite side of the bank Alex had come from. When they reached it Alex regretfully let go of the towel and scrambled up on the deck, waving his thanks to Deacon as the man sped away. Arms clutched around his middle, he stumbled up the planks and onto the pavement. It was night now—dark and cold, with a breeze that felt like it was brushing up along his bones. His wrists and ankles stung and his side twinged with each breath. He was too tired to even care about the picture he presented—wearing jeans and a t-shirt, soaking wet, in November.

Alex entered the first shop he saw with its lights still on and headed to the clothes section. He grabbed a flannel shirt, jacket, jeans, and pair of thick socks before marching up to the counter and placing them down. The cashier stared at him dumbly. Alex raised his eyebrows. She flushed, clearing her throat. "Erm, right," She stammered, grabbing the clothes and scanning them. "That'll be forty pounds."

Alex bent down and reached into his other shoe, pulling out a wad of soaked bills and counted them. Just enough. He plopped the stack down on the counter. The cashier looked at the bills dubiously. "They might be a bit damp." Alex said.

He grabbed the clothes off the counter and headed to the restroom, shucking off his wet clothes as quickly as he could for the dry ones. The jeans were a bit tight, the flannel a bit long, and his shoes still squelching with each step, but it sufficed. He stuffed his wet clothes into the trash and headed out the store, nodding at the girl behind the counter as she watched him with narrowed eyes. Back onto the street, Alex meandered aimlessly for a while, warming up his muscles. He still felt cold and tired and in pain, and he had to sit down on a bench for a minute as a lump lodged in his throat.

He hunched over and ran his hands across his face. He was okay. He was alive. He just needed to find somewhere to crash for the night, and he could decide what to do in the morning, right? Suddenly it all just felt like too much. He had no idea what he was doing, no idea what he could do to fix this fucked up situation, and here he was, sitting on a bench, having a breakdown. He took a few deep, measured breaths, trying to think through the situation rationally, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't come up with a way to solve this. What he had previously thought about turning himself in seemed absurd now. MI6 had sway everywhere, how could he know that he would be safe in the hands of the police? And now there was a third player, although Alex supposed she had really been there all along, the person pulling the strings; the nameless woman who tried to drown him at the bottom of the Thames.

Alex shivered, he hated being restrained or confined. He'd always been a bit claustrophobic and the events of the past year of his life had only made it worse. He thought it was probably safe to add anything water related to the list of things to avoid right along with confined spaces, especially taking into account the ridiculously large number of times he had nearly drowned.

He took a few more deep breaths and cupped his hands together—blowing into them to try to bring some warmth back to his still cold fingers. Maybe he could just . . . walk right up to the Queen's palace and demand sanctuary. After all, if there was anyone in this whole mess of government who wasn't corrupt, it would be the Queen, right? Alex snorted at the image of himself knocking on the door, 'Hey, anyone home? Was hoping I could talk to Her Majesty.' Alex sat on the bench, trying to smother hysterical giggles at the thought.

It took him a minute, but he became aware of a sound echoing from across the street. He glanced up, and blinked blearily, trying to figure out why the phone in the booth was ringing. Slowly, he rose to his feet and trudged across the street. He opened up the telephone booth and slid inside. He didn't give himself any more time to think about it though-grabbed the phone, and brought it up to his ear.

"Alex?" A tinny voice spoke.

" . . . Smithers?" Alex said, incredulous.

"Ah, it's wonderful to hear your voice, old chap! I hope you're doing well, considering, well . . ."

"How did you know where I was?" Alex asked. "And for that matter, does everyone else know?"

"You contacted me." Smithers said, surprised.

"Uh . . ." Alex stammered, "How?"

"The watch, of course. You pressed the button. The one that sends an emergency signal. It is exclusive only to me—sends me the coordinates of your location. . ." His voice trailed off.

"Oh!" Realization dawned on Alex, memories of cold water pressing in on him and frantically scrambling fingers. "That was actually by accident, but not unwarranted I guess."

Smithers paused for a second before answering, "Well, you're not too bad off, I take it? I was hoping you would activate it, but I guess I didn't specify that the signal would only be broadcasted to me."

"Honestly? I kind of forgot about it." Alex admitted.

"Nevermind that, are you somewhere safe right now? Well safe as can be, at the moment."

"It'll do for now," Alex answered. "I had some people on my tail, but I think I lost them when I crossed the river."

"Good, good. I was hoping to chat about possible ways to attempt to resolve this situation. Rather snowballed it has, but there are still options left."

Alex stood up from where he had sagged against the phone booth. "You have some ideas? The only thing I could think of was turning myself in somewhere, but I couldn't think of a way that would prevent Blunt from getting his hands on me."

Smithers sighed, "I wish I could tell you otherwise, but Blunt has too much sway. He's held that position of power for far too long, and maintained connections with damn near every agency, in one form or another. The man isn't 'Top Spy' for nothing. I simply don't have the data to know with enough certainty that you would be safe turning yourself in just anywhere. Yes, without a doubt the recent publicity has burned some of his bridges, but he's still too dangerous, and the last thing he can afford is you living to tell your tale."

"So I'm still fucked?"

"I didn't say that," Smithers replied. "There are options. As soon as I got wind of the situation I knew you would be in trouble, you see, so I sent out some feelers here and there. As best as I can tell, you have four options."

"Go on." Alex said.

"Well, first and foremost; the press. I could provide you with a trustworthy contact and try to arrange a safehouse, although it would only be temporary, and you could rip Blunt a new one. However, I would not advise this. I'm sure it's tempting, but your experiences are highly classified for a reason, and the publication of such information would create a major security breach for MI6, as well as possibly the CIA and ASIS. I'm not saying the bastards don't deserve it, but the extent of the damage could be quite severe."

Alex understood. And truth be told, he wasn't sure he wanted the world to know anything more about him. Just the information that had been revealed so far had made him feel uncomfortable. "I know," he replied, "I'd ruled that one out already."

"Knew you were an intelligent lad," Smithers said. "In that case, by my estimation there are two agencies that would be willing to provide you with some decent measure of sanctuary-MI5 and the SAS. Both of them have had feuds with '6 in the past and have some rocky ground between them. Territorial pissing between '5 and '6 is quite common, and I know an agent or two there with enough power and dislike for Blunt that they'd be willing to stand up for you. The SAS hasn't gotten along well with '6 in the past either-thinks we're a bunch of posh prats I reckon, but they have enough sway they could probably give you somewhere to lay low and they have enough good blood with the government to do some coordinating."

"So, basically, you need to stash me somewhere until the people in power gets their heads out of their arses and wrestle Blunt under control?" Alex said.

"Yes, essentially." Smithers agreed.

"And the fourth option?"

"Well," Smithers hesitated, "We could try sending you abroad. To the CIA, ASIS, DGSE, SCRS. Somewhere far away from Blunt's reach. I'm not even suggesting you going at it lone-wolf, Alex, as I hate to say it old chap, but you really can't stay out of trouble. The chances of you staying under the radar by yourself are very low, suffice to say. However, I have much less influence abroad, and I could not guarantee you as high a probability of safety in such far away locations."

Alex deliberated, glancing out the cracked and blurry phone booth window-panning his gaze across the street yet again. He wasn't eager to get reacquainted with the SAS, and he didn't like the thought of travelling far away and into the hands of an unknown. But would MI5 really be any better? Could they provide him the safety he needed, or would they just hand him right over to Blunt? Alex took a moment before answering, "How much do you trust your man at MI5?"

* * *

Two hours after his conversation with Smithers Alex walked down the pavement, approaching a building-large, but not all that architecturally impressive, made up of two relatively rectangular shaped buildings connected by a skinnier segment with an arched alcove in the center that presented three dark doors precisely spaced from one another. Thames house—headquarters to MI5.

Alex continued at a steady pace, acting like just another youth out on the streets at night. It was London, so of course there were others out on the pavement, but Alex still felt twitchy and all too obvious, and fought the urge to glance over his shoulder yet again. He trusted Smithers, but honestly, this plan was sounding worse and worse the longer he contemplated it. Supposedly, Smithers' contact should be at the front desk in about—Alex checked his watch—three minutes, and when Alex waltzed in the front door he would be waiting to whisk him away before anyone else could question it. Alex was eager for this debacle to be over with, or at least to stop having to run from MI6, but this seemed almost like a cop out—just turn himself over and everyone would solve everything for him? Experience had proved that happened very rarely for Alex.

Finally, Alex gave into the urge to take a glance behind him, pretending to cough into his arm, and used his peripheral vision. Briefly satisfied no one was about to shove a knife into his back, he continued on, figuring he would walk past the building once to spend another minute-as Smithers had stressed timing was critical-and double back around as soon as he reached the curb. It would be slightly suspicious, but probably not enough to gain anyone's attention as long as he played it right. He kept his shoulders slumped and trudged along at a measured pace as the end of the building loomed, only glancing up briefly as a jogger neared.

They both did a simultaneous double take and stopped dead in their tracks. Alex was truly speechless-he had been told more than once that he had the luck of the devil, but this was just absurd, as before him stood none other than his mysterious would-be-murder. At least she looked as genuinely surprised to see him as he was her.

Understanding hit him as he remembered what building he stood beside. She must be MI5. Alex was rather disappointed in himself right then-really, he had to choose the one option that would put him straight back into the line of fire?

They both stood there, frozen in the middle of the pavement-the woman in the same joggers, flushed from her run (or perhaps the embarrassment of her failed murder-It would be kind of embarrassing, if you thought about it, being so sure of yourself and then coming face to face with the same kid you just dumped in the river) and Alex in his ill-fitting clothes and squeaky trainers.

"So," Alex broke the stalemate, "Am I supposed to run here, or is it your turn? I'm drawing a blank on the etiquet—okay!"

Alex was the one to turn tail as the woman's eyes narrowed and she charged for him, hand reaching in her pocket for what Alex was sure was the taser. He took a chance and bolted across the road, only narrowly avoiding a passing cab, but gaining a few seconds head start. He leaped the curb and turned left, heading away from Thames House. He could hear the rhythmic slap of shoes on concrete and took a glance after rounding the corner-sure enough, there she was. She was fast, he'd give her that. Her scheming could use a little work, though.

Alex nearly bowled over a shopper as he looked forward again, but didn't have time to apologize, and continued at a sprint down the pavement. He needed to be smart about this-the woman probably knew these surroundings better than him, but she had to be flustered at his sudden lust for life, and he could use that disorientation against her if he acted sooner rather than later.

Up ahead a large building loomed, Millbank Tower, Alex recognized. As he approached, he saw that by the base of the building there was a line of people dressed in fancy clothes and talking amongst themselves. By the open doorway two tall, buff men stood. If he was quick enough, Alex thought, he could probably leap past the bouncers and lose himself in the crowd, and they would hopefully prevent the woman from following.

Mind made up, Alex put on a last burst of speed. He saw one of the women at the front of the line take notice of him and look towards the bouncer, opening her mouth probably to warn him of the demented young man sprinting straight towards them. Luckily, this caused the bouncer to focus on her, and Alex took the moment to leap through the doorway, shouts rising up behind, but no one able to grab hold of him. He ducked inside, momentarily disoriented by the change in lighting, only to dodge suddenly as a burly figure swiped at him. Apparently, there was one more bouncer inside the door-must be a high end place.

Alex ducked under the man's wheeling arms and dashed forward-there! An elevator stood at the end of the hall, in the midst of closing, and Alex skidded on the smooth floor as he flung himself into it. He ignored the surprised occupants-several young men and women, it was a spacious lift-and jabbed at the close door button. He glanced through the diminishing crack, expecting to see the furious face of the bouncer, and leaped back just in time as the woman fired the taser.

A shriek let out behind him as one of the other occupants was hit, and Alex rolled back up onto his feet as the woman snaked her hand between the closing doors and squeezed into the lift. Silence fell, broken only by both of their harsh breaths and the pained whimper from the unintended recipient of the taser shock. A shout sounded from the hallway as the door began to close once again, but the bouncers were too slow, and the door closed with a click.

The jerk of motion signaling their ascent broke the tension and the woman lunged at Alex at the same moment he levelled a kick at her torso. She twisted and caught his leg, jerking to pull him off balance but Alex used the opportunity to brace himself against the side of the lift and bring up his other foot, striking her in the stomach. She stumbled into one of the other occupants and they pushed back, hurling her into Alex. He attempted to dodge, but she grabbed his arm and began to twist, trying to catch him in a lock.

Alex moved with the motion and struck out at her knee. She dodged, and used the move against him, catching his leg with her own. He moved with it again, rolling as she swung them to the ground, and brought an elbow up into her face. Her hold on his arm weakened and he wrenched it free, wincing as he was reminded of his encounter with a rubber bullet. He rolled to his feet again and glanced up. The woman moved into a crouch as well, not taking her eyes away from him as blood ran from her nose, another temporary stalemate as each waited for the other.

"Now wait just a m-" a voice sounded from behind Alex.

He twitched, almost having forgotten the five other people in the lift, and cursed as the woman took the moment to attack. She launched a series of hand strikes at him-quick, hard-hitting, and difficult to predict. Alex became aware of just how out of practice he was. He was struggling to block everything, and all too soon a hit got through. She faked a kick to his right and instead struck left, fist hitting just off-center his bruised side. A gasp left his lips and Alex sagged against the wall.

She was on him then, grabbing an arm and twisting to throw him over her hip and to the ground. Alex fought back, grabbing her own arm, and they went down in a tangle. She had him partway pinned but Alex still had an arm and leg free and aimed a punch for her throat while struggling to drive a knee into her kidney.

The woman dogged his fist and brought her own into his face, knocking his head back against the floor. She grunted as his knee made contact with her side, but used her own to force his back down, and then brought her forearm to rest across his throat-pinning his head against the floor and cutting off his breath.

Alex was sick of this. He was so goddamn done with this day. He chanced a glance at the other occupants of the lift-choking at the pressure on his throat-and made sure to add in a bit of a glare. Really? They weren't gonna help a guy out?

They all gazed back at him, shocked, horrified, but one of the women stepped forward, hiked up her long dress, and drove her heeled shoe into the woman holding him down.

The weight left him as the woman rolled off. Alex reached down quickly as he could, feeling for his trainer. His hand clenched on cold metal. The woman rolled upright, hands reaching for his throat as she swung a leg into his stomach, and Alex brought the knife up into her abdomen.

A choked cry left her lips, and she gazed down at her stomach in shock, hands coming up to hover over the protruding knife. Hot blood ran down Alex's fingers. He unclenched his hand from the knife, sitting up and shoving the woman off of him. She fell onto her back, face white with shock.

Alex stood to his feet and wiped his shaking hand on his jeans. He wondered how long the after effects of the taser lasted. He looked into the corner of the lift, where all five other occupants huddled together, staring at him with wide eyes. Slowly, Alex shrugged off his jacket, wincing as the adrenaline began to fade. He took a few steps towards the woman, causing her to look up at him. Her expression was difficult to decipher—a strange mixture of disbelief, indignation, and something else. Alex threw his jacket at her and she flinched as it landed half on her stomach.

"Put pressure on it." He said, voice rough.

He turned to face the other occupants again. "I need to borrow one of your phones."

The man closest to him blinked owlishly, before reaching into his trouser pocket and holding out his I-Phone with shaking hands. The case was black and white and showed a silhouette of a man in a suit framed through the stylized view of a gun chamber. Swirls spread out along the barrel, mimicking the rifling, and '007' was printed along one line. Alex raised his eyebrows, but slowly reached out and took the phone. At least the man had the grace to blush.

Alex dialed the number Smithers had given him in case things didn't go smoothly, as they were apt to. His fingers smeared blood across the screen.

"Hello?" Smithers voice echoed out of the speaker. "Alex? Don't tell me it's already gone downhill."

" . . . You ever notice how I have very abnormal luck?"

"Oh dear. Where are you?"

"Hold on," Alex pulled the phone away from his ear. "What floor is this going to?"

The same man who had lent him the phone spoke hesitantly, "The top."

"Ah, of course." Alex glanced up at the ascending numbers above the door as he brought the phone back up to his ear. "The top of Millbank Tower—well, close to it."

"How did you—nevermind. What's the situation?" Smithers answered.

Alex took a glance at the woman still on the floor, hands now pressed on the padded-up jacket held to her abdomen. "So, I guess I forgot to mention, but '6 isn't the only one who was tailing me earlier. I had a run in with a woman, by the Thames. She tased me, we had a chat, then she tried to drown me in the river—you know, the usual. But as it turns out, she seems to be from '5."

Smithers let loose a curse, "Well, I take it you lost her?"

"Ah, no, she's here with me. She's not a problem at the moment, though." Alex glanced up at the display above the door again. "But in about twenty seconds this lift is going to open and I don't think the reception is going to be friendly."

"Oh dear." Smithers said again. "I'll do my best to send an extraction, but you'll have to stall a while. You know this only leaves two options, yes? What will it be, SAS or abroad?"

Alex only hesitated a moment, "The first one."

"Alright old chap, hold on."

Alex looked down at the phone and let out a breath. He tossed the mobile back to its owner, the man fumbling to catch it, "Thanks. If you could, try to emphasize how I was acting in self-defense, alright?"

Alex turned to face the door as the lift slowed.

"Are—are you . . . _Alex Rider?"_ The same man asked, nearly whispering his name, right before the doors opened with a _ping._

Two muscular men were revealed, one of them holding a radio, probably conferring with his associates on the ground. Both of their gazes alighted on Alex first—obviously incongruous as he was, in ill-fitting clothes, standing in the center of the lift when the rest of the occupants were huddled to the side—and then to the woman lying on the ground, a bundled up jacket held to her middle thankfully concealing the handle of the knife still impaled in her abdomen.

Alex realized it looked pretty bad, but at the same time, the last thing the man who had lent him the phone said stuck in his thoughts. His name had weight now, and Alex had half a second to come to a decision. He quickly swiped the congealing blood still stuck to his hand across his face and squared his shoulders.

"You," He snapped, pointing at the shorter man, "Bring the first-aid kit. And a stretcher, if you have it. And you,"—pointing at the taller man—"Bring me a water, I'm parched."

Both men blinked at him dumbly before the taller one straightened and furrowed his brow. "Excuse me? Who do you think you are? No, you're coming with us and we're escorting you back out this buil-"

"Alex Rider." Alex interrupted. "And no, I'm not leaving, I have an appointment to make." He checked his watch.

Both the men blinked again, at the name or non-sequitur he wasn't sure, before the shorter took a step forward and placed a hand on the door as it began to slide shut. "Stop taking the piss and exit the elevator before we have to forcibly remove you." His gaze slid back over to the woman on the ground, who was looking at Alex, gaze a bit unfocused. "Hey, I think you should grab med-kit, though." The man directed towards his colleague.

Alex took a step forward, drawing both of the men's gaze again. He put as much steel into his expression as he could. "I'd appreciate it if you took me seriously, this isn't a joking matter."

Something about his tone must have worked, as each man took a longer look at Alex, and he met their gazes one at a time. The one closer to him blanched and took a step back. The taller frowned, looking unconvinced, and approached Alex, reaching out to grasp his shoulder. Figuring there was nothing else to it, Alex grabbed the man's hand and twisted it around, forcing him to fall to his knees with a thud or have his wrist broken.

"I'd appreciate it," He repeated, twisting the man's wrist for emphasis, "if you took me seriously. One of the women in this lift has been tased and the other is in risk of bleeding out. So why don't you grab that first-aid kit?"

"Here." Alex glanced up, surprised, to see the shorter bouncer approaching with a box in hand. He had missed the man leaving.

"Thanks," Alex said. He took the kit and approached the woman lying on the floor of the lift. She was still conscious, but her gaze was a bit glassy and her face seemed paler. Shock and blood loss would do that. He peeled away her hands and the jacket—now damp with blood. Both of the bouncers cursed behind him, and Alex suddenly realized how unprepared he was to deal with this.

Not wanting to lose his commanding façade, Alex decided he'd wing it. It's not like he was particularly attached to the woman. Although, he would like her to be forced to deal with the consequences of her actions, just as she was forcing Alex to. He grabbed some bandages and placed them around the knife, still not removing it—he knew that much—and began to wrap the gauze around the bandages, prodding at the woman to lift herself off the ground so he could slide the gauze roll underneath her.

Her cleared his throat, "You never did tell me your name. Figure you owe me that much."

The woman glared at him, some fire still left in her eyes. "Joanne. Talbot. I owe you nothing, if you'd just done as you should and died—" She cut off with a grunt as Alex tied the gauze tightly below the knife.

"My bad." He said.

He stood up, turning back to face the bouncers and the other occupants of the lift. "Who was tased?"

One of the men at the back of the group raised his hand from where he was slumped against the side of the lift. Alex blinked. Oops. He'd honestly thought it had been a woman—the yell had been rather high pitched. "Ah, right."

His knowledge of caring for someone who had been tased was rather limited, other than the first hand knowledge that swimming after was a definite no go. He grabbed the shock blanket from the kit and tossed it to the man. "Make sure to drink a lot of fluids." That sounded intelligent enough.

Just then, a woman's voice came from outside the lift, "Um, Marty, we've got someone on the phone requesting to talk to security? They said they were looking for Alex R—shit!"

A young woman in a smart suit came to a halt as she viewed the inside of the lift, glancing between the still-huddled group of occupants, the woman on the floor, Alex, and the frozen bouncers.

Alex glanced at his watch. Smithers worked fast. "Alex Rider? Yes, that would be me. What was the message?"

The woman stared at him, realization flashing across her face. "Oh! They, well, they said not to apprehend you. Not to call the police." She regained some of her composure. "And that there would be a helicopter for you and your companion in fifteen minutes."

Alex nodded. "Could you point me towards roof access?"

The woman nodded, "Of course, right this way."

"Just a moment," Alex turned towards the bouncer, the one who he hadn't assaulted, "Think you could help me with her?" He jerked his thumb towards Joanne Talbot.

The man nodded jerkily. He walked over to the woman and attempted to gently ease her into his arms, which he wasn't entirely successful at, given the expression on her face. Alex turned to step out of the lift when a throat cleared behind him.

"You wouldn't, ah, sign this for me, would you?" The phone-lender asked, a shaky smile on his face. He was holding out his phone.

Alex looked down at the phone. Back up at the man.

"Ah, right, stupid, of course not . . ."

Alex began walking, not bothering to dignify the man with a response.

The young woman lead him down the hallway and turned left, away from the direction in which music was emanating, probably from the club, or bar, or whatever this place was. She glanced back at him with a smirk, "That happen often?"

Alex shook his head, "First, time actually."

The woman looked surprised.

"I've been avoiding the public, recently." Alex stated, not sure why he was indulging her curiosity.

"How's that going for you? I hope you don't mind me saying, but you look a bit rough."

"Sleep deprivation and near death experiences tend to do that to a person." He replied.

She looked torn between a mixture of amusement and shock. "Well," She lead him up a flight of stairs and pushed open the door at the top, letting in a gust of frigid air, "I hope things look up for you, Mr. Rider."

"Please, call me Alex."

"Sarah," She shook his hand as Alex stepped out onto the roof. He wondered if she realized there was still some dry blood crusted between his fingers.

He surveyed the spread of the city before him—lit up bright against the darkness of the sky, some of the sounds carrying up to them even at this height. It was an impressive view, Alex thought, realizing just how high up they were. If it had been day, he could have seen for miles.

He was startled out of his musings at a voice behind him.

It was the bouncer, Joanne Talbot held bridal style in his arms, "Ah, where should I . . .?"

Alex shrugged, "Wherever."

The man awkwardly placed her down by the side of the roof and the three stood in the chill November air, silent.

"So," Sarah piped up, "I have to ask, is it true you shot the former PM on accident?"

Alex let loose a breath, glad she hadn't asked anything more invasive. "Yeah, that one's true. I honestly didn't mean to." He scuffed a hand through his hair.

Sarah sighed, "Ah, too bad. I never really liked the bloke myself. Would have liked the chance to show him how I felt."

Alex snorted, "I'll keep that in mind if I drop in on him again."

Sarah let loose a giggle and looked ready to reply when the bouncer spoke up, "Um, just wanted to say, my daughter goes to public school in the city and I'm really grateful for what you've done. It's obviously unethical, I mean, I'm sorry about that. But if it hadn't been for you, well . . ."

Alex shrugged, feeling a bit awkward. "I just did what anyone else in my position would have."

"Yeah, but you were the one to do it. And you saved a lot of lives."

Alex shuffled, unsure what the right response was, exactly. He had never really been thanked for his missions, at least not by a civilian. "Um—" He cut off, being saved from answering by the _t_ _hump-thump_ sound of a helicopter in the distance. He glanced Northwards and made out a blot of darkness moving against the bright lights of the city. The shape grew closer quickly, coming directly towards them, and the sound of the blades grew louder. Soon, the wind was whipping around, passing straight through Alex's thin flannel, and whipping his hair into his eyes.

In a few minutes the helicopter was above them, slowly descending to land in the center of the roof—which was thankfully clear of obstructions in order to allow for the landing. It looked like a military model, not that large, but with open sides instead of doors. A man in fatigues dropped down to the ground and moved over to Alex. Alex waved him off though, signaling towards Joanne Talbot's prone figure. The man nodded and scooped her up, and Alex followed him back to the helicopter. He climbed in behind the man and took the closest seat as Joanne was buckled into the one adjacent, head lolling. She had probably passed out by now.

As the helicopter rose into the air once more Alex spared a wave to the two figures on the roof before sitting back into the seat. He watched the buildings below as they moved West and passed over the man in fatigues had sat across the cabin from Alex, and he caught his attention, signaling to the headset at Alex's side. Alex nodded and reached down to grab it when movement to his left caught his eye. Joanne Talbot was sitting up, free from her buckles.

Alex leaped to his feet, or at least attempted to, his own harness jerking him back. He scrabbled at the buckle and jumped up when it unlatched. He walked, too unsteady to run on the floor of the moving aircraft, towards Joanne. She rose from her own seat, wobbling, one hand held to her middle. Alex was only a pace from her when she grasped the handle of the knife in her stomach and pulled. He could hear her cry even over the noise of the blades.

He lunged towards her but she swiped out at him with the bloody knife and he dodged back. Her back was to the opening now and she teetered momentarily. Alex lunged for her again—she couldn't get away, she had to face what she had done, Alex needed her to realize the enormity of her actions. She swiped for him and he caught her wrist, twisting it and bringing them face to face.

The wind whipped her hair in a frenzy and she looked deathly pale against the blackness of the sky behind her. Alex was close enough to see the blood still encrusted below her nostrils and the snarl of her mouth. Close enough to hear the words she yelled.

"I will not be remembered as a traitor!" Her face twisted, and he was sure if the wind wasn't so harsh there would be tears on her cheeks. "I am a patriot! A pat—"

Her yell cut off as the helicopter dipped. A hand had latched onto Alex's ankle a moment before, which was the only thing that prevented him from tipping over the edge. Joanne had no such anchor, other than Alex's hand on her wrist, which was ripped away as she tumbled out into the air and plummeted towards the city below.

Alex's hands gripped the edge of the floor, even as the helicopter righted, his head suspended out in the air, wind buffeting his face. He watched her body pinwheel through the sky, one small, dark speck against the backdrop of the city. He watched as her silhouette disappeared, no longer visible against the dark river below them, and he watched as a white spout of water shot up out of the Thames. Watched until the water smoothed over again, its glossy surface calm once more, as it cut a dark, winding path through the heart of London..

Slowly, Alex pushed himself backwards, until he had a good distance between himself and the opening of the helicopter, and stood up. He walked over and plopped himself in his seat and gave a nod to the other man situated across from him for the helping hand. He buckled himself back in securely, acknowledging the man's signal to pick up the headset by his side, but made no move toward it.

Alex gazed back out across the city of London, glowing in the darkness of the night. The rotor blades thumped rhythmically in his ears and the wind whipped through his thin clothes, a persistent cold that licked up against his skeleton. He took a moment to breathe, shut his eyes.

There was no going back. What was done was done, now he had to figure out how to live with the changes wrought.

Alex took one more deep breath before straightening in his seat, picking up the headset, and placing it over his own head.

* * *

And there it is, my first published fanfiction, all finished. I'm honestly a bit sorry about how not-happy the story is. I didn't really realize until I finished that it wasn't going to be particularly cheery, but I hope you enjoyed my attempts at humor here and there. Also, I did leave it a bit open ended, but I don't have any plans to write a sequel, at least in the near future.

However, I have been working on another Alex Rider fic for the past year or two (although I've only written about 20k, damn writer's block) that I may or may not publish some time in the future. Basically, I'm working on something but don't be too expectant as I am a procrastinator though and through. Also, the fic is actually an Alex Rider x Harry Potter crossover, and if I ever do publish it expect a monstrosity (the first chapter is over 10k words, and I don't even have an estimate for the amount of chapters in the story (really need to work on my outline, I know)).

Thanks a bunch for any reviews, follows, or favorites, they are all greatly appreciated :)


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